


The Palest Blue Light

by LadyDorian



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Drama & Romance, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, M/M, Origin Story, Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:45:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His history winks back, fragments of memories and sensations that he can't quite fit together. A cloud surrounding him: Particles of life, articles of breath. Blood cleansed from his body, his soul, gifted to the lonely earth. </p><p>The choking cries of man clinging to what once was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Palest Blue Light

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't entirely satisfied with the ending of the first season, so I attempted to tie up some loose ends. 
> 
> *Inspired by Galileo Galilei's saddest songs, particularly ["Hoshi wo Otosu"](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com/post/89296346695/well-i-found-the-musical-inspiration-for-this), with a nod to Carole Maso's _AVA_ *

**The Palest Blue Light**

 

His breath billows white against the darkening sky, clouds spreading with each shallow puff, mere memories of their former brilliance.

A fog of faded potential, a portrait of lives lost to futility.

 _Their_ lives, as stupid as they were precious. But they hadn't known any of that.

They'd become too content after so many years, too convinced it was yet another "easy job" for them, like picking up groceries before heading home for the evening. Like it had always been.

But they'd never met this type of animal.

Wrench clutches at the wound in his neck, the blood spurting between his bare fingers every bit as cold as the snow beneath him.

 _It's bad; the bullet might have nicked a vein_. He knows it's only a matter of time.

 _This is what he wanted_.

It was the ultimate insult. Malvo knew Wrench would come for him. He knew the deaf man was vulnerable, easy to ambush. He could have put a bullet right between his eyes or in the back of his head. Even with four heightened senses, Wrench wasn't a fucking ninja, especially not on the frozen plains of Minnesota.

But no, this was what he wanted—for Wrench to bleed out, cold and alone, like his partner before him. To mock him for squandering his second chance. After Wrench fell, Malvo even shot out both of his kneecaps at point blank range, added insurance that he wouldn't try to escape.

 _We were foolish_.

Wrench tells himself he should have tried harder. Months of planning and tracking, stewing in anger and sorrow, all for nothing. All of it swallowed up by the face looming overhead, lost in that tight-lipped smile.

And Wrench wonders if this is what _he'd_ wanted all along.

_Something about a bear breaking its trap, to die on its own._

It makes him sick to recall those words. Even sicker to acknowledge the truth behind them.

Without Numbers in his life, what was the point of living at all?

He barely notices the pain, his limbs and fingers numb from the snow, resigned to perish without his permission.

Each piece of him is giving up in turn.

Malvo moves his lips to speak, words imperceptible in the encroaching dusk. Wrench isn't interested in anything he has to say; he chokes back the metallic taste on his tongue, thinks of how red the snow must be by now, how many constellations he'll be able to pick out before he dies, whether the humans or the animals will find him first—anything to erase this man from his mind.

He doesn't want this monster's image to be his last.

He gazes up through the miasma, the record of his existence playing out in an ebbing stream of gasps. Up, past the outline of his ignorance—his undoing—far beyond, where he spots the first star stepping out into the evening sky.

It's all he has left now.

The shadow dwarfing him recedes, as Malvo leaves him to his silence, to the company of his thoughts, his multitude of regrets.

And the star above.

_We were foolish, Ari._

Wrench removes the hand from his neck, reaches out across the snow, blindly grasping at emptiness, at the cold air and the memory of his partner. The tears freeze on his lashes, the deepening blue sky sparkling as the pale star winks down at him.

He taps his stiff fingers into the powder beside him. Once. Twice. Like he'd remembered all those years ago.

 

 

It started with a simple tap.

Wrench had brushed off the first, but opened his eyes after the second connected with the heel of his foot, slightly more insistent. The man standing there wore a heavy black overcoat and scarf, though Wrench didn't think that morning had been very cold at all. He didn't seem terribly old, but sported a full, thick beard that looked like it had been growing for decades. On his lips, Wrench caught the spoor of his words: "…hear me the first time? You shouldn't be sleeping here, man."

Wrench looked around to be sure the man was addressing him. The alley was as deserted as he'd always found it, the strange man in front of him the only element out of place. He straightened his back against the dumpster, gazed up and shrugged his shoulders.

The guy hadn't seemed too annoyed, had actually smiled before pulling his hands out of his pockets and pointing to the building behind Wrench. "…know what…kind of place?"

Again, Wrench shrugged. It was a Chinese restaurant, what else? The customers wasted a shit ton of food, and it ended up in the dumpster and later in Wrench's stomach. He couldn't break it down for the bearded guy any simpler than that.

His answer didn't seem to satisfy the man; the smile on his face gradually began to fade, and he scratched at the back of his head as if he was scraping the barrel of his thoughts. "Look, you really shouldn't be here. These people…aren't nice. Homeless guys…a hassle…" He turned his head to glance up and down the alley, and Wrench lost track of the conversation, picking up once he faced forward again. "…old are you?"

Wrench held up a finger, the universal signal for _Wait a fucking minute_. He dug into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulled out a small notepad and pen, flipping it open to a blank page. He scribbled quickly, eager to get the stranger off his back.

_17\. Runaway._

That was a lie; Wrench was twenty at the time, closer to twenty-one, but he looked young enough to pass as a teenager. The second part had been true at one point, and was usually worth a few sympathy bucks, good for a hot meal that wasn't tainted with dumpster juice. He held the pad up to the man, long enough to let the message sink in.

He stroked his beard, kept his dark eyes focused on Wrench. "You talk?"

Wrench shook his head, jotted down _Deaf_ before turning the notepad around.

The guy nodded, but made no indication that he intended to leave. "You read lips?" He spoke almost insultingly slowly, simultaneously pointing at Wrench, then back up at his mouth.

Wrench shot him an incredulous look. He wasn't an expert at it, but Really? What the fuck did he think he'd been doing this entire time? _Idiot,_ he signed, knowing the man wouldn't understand.

Beardo seemed to pick up on Wrench's body language, at least, laughing as he gave his head a quick shake. "…stupid of me to ask." His hands slipped into the pockets of his coat, and Wrench felt a pang of excitement, wondering just how much the guy was willing to give up. His clothing looked fancy enough for at least a ten, hopefully a twenty. But the hands stayed put, the man issuing one last warning as he rocked on his heels. "Look, you really should find another alley, man…guys…not as nice as me."

Like hell that was going to happen. Wrench huffed, scribbled _GOOD NOODLES_ as large as he could, tapped the paper with his pen for stress, then gave the odd guy a thumbs up. The man grinned, big and stupid, before walking away. Wrench watched him leave, unable to get his face out of his mind. He scrawled out a quick doodle of the guy, with the word _Cheapskate_ below, in the off chance he saw him again.

Of course, Wrench figured they'd cross paths sooner or later. He wasn't about to let some weirdo drive him away from a somewhat decent thing, no matter how sharply dressed the guy was, or how ridiculous his hair looked, slicked back like some kind of gangster. He'd keep coming back to the same spot until the cops dragged him off, and then he'd still keep coming back, because it wasn't like he had anything to lose or anywhere better to go. He'd only been in the city for about two weeks, but he wasn't close to being done with the place yet.

Then, he met one of "those people" the oddball had warned him about.

He was shorter than the bearded guy, with even sillier hair and clothing, complete with a clunky gold chain around his neck. He came up behind Wrench one night as he was sneaking a few items out of the dumpster, threw him against the wall and began kicking at him. In the pitiful haze of the streetlights, Wrench picked out some of his choicer words, like "Fuck off" and "Scum," all spat with pathetic savagery.

Wrench beat the shit out of the asshole, found it to be surprisingly easy once he'd gotten to his feet. And once he started, he couldn't stop. He just kept pummeling away, bloodied his face up so badly, the guy actually had to pull a gun to get Wrench to back off.

The thug was shouting, threatening god knows what, but Wrench was too focused on the gun to follow his blood-drenched lips. Not that he was afraid; rather, it reminded him of something his mother had said once about men who liked to wave large firearms around.

“ _They all have tiny little dicks.”_

Wrench smirked at the thought, must have pissed the guy off even more, because he shoved the barrel against his forehead and forced his back to the wall.

And then Wrench remembered that for all of her sass and witty comebacks, his mother still hadn't been able to keep his father from beating the both of them.

Wrench could only imagine how loud the man had been carrying on, because several more came running down the alley, looking just as enraged. Some seemed to argue with each other, and with the guy holding the gun. Again, Wrench was too distracted to pay attention. He didn't even think to flee. He simply stared at the one face he recognized: The one trying his hardest to be serious as his eyes darted around the fray.

The one who just couldn't hide the stupid grin tearing at his lips.

 

 

Their first kiss had been a little harder to pin down, simply because the night their lips finally connected, they came in a downpour, as impossible to number as raindrops. And if Wrench couldn't pick out which kiss had been the first, it only proved that each had been more memorable than the last.

But he recalled what had set it in motion: A day so mundane and unromantic that most would have gladly forgotten. Not Wrench. For him, it was a new beginning.

It was the night he stopped sleeping on Numbers' pullout sofa.

They'd been partners for two years, no more than three, and by then they'd become quite good at their craft, like two linked cogs in a well-oiled machine. They'd arrived back in Fargo before nightfall, another job completed ahead of schedule, and after checking in to pick up their payment, had headed out to grab a bite to eat before unwinding at the bar. Neither had much taste for the group meals and "business" meetings that were a routine part of their employment. They only made appearances when absolutely necessary, or on the rare occasions when Jergen or Sanchez or one of the other new mouths complained to their boss about how the two weren't "team players." Like they worked for a fucking marketing firm.

Wrench preferred to be alone in his partner's company. None of the others really enjoyed having the deaf guy around, anyway. He frequently caught them shooting odd glances at the pair engaged in their own private conversations, noticed the annoyance at the lack of interest in their tawdry stories. It didn't bother him, though. To be honest, Wrench never cared much about so-and-so's ridiculous hit, or who banged which whore down at the club that week. He just liked being with Numbers.

And if he was really honest with himself, he might have even called it a crush.

Wrench had had a few drinks in him by then—a shot of whiskey and several beers, if he remembered correctly. He wasn't drunk by any means, but was feeling more relaxed than usual, leaning an arm against the bar as he feigned attention. Numbers was going on about ice fishing or something, and although Wrench was typically captivated by his partner's hands, his eyes had been drawn elsewhere that night.

Almost immediately after they'd handed him to Numbers, the older man started to learn ASL for him. He was still far from perfect, but he was persistent. Wrench's own mother hadn't even tried as hard. That made Numbers all the more important to him, even though Wrench liked to poke fun at his rigid movements and how his lips would sometimes follow along with the words he signed.

 _His lips_. That was what Wrench had been fixated on recently. What they felt like, tasted like. But he couldn't do more than look, so he just sat and gazed until Numbers began waving his hands to get his attention.

_Hey. You're quiet tonight._

Wrench rolled his eyes. _No shit?_

 _You know what I mean, smartass. You—_ His fingers flexed for a moment, like he was trying to determine the appropriate motion. _You're staring at me._

He shrugged, not about to deny it. _Maybe._

Numbers raised an eyebrow, waited for some kind of explanation from Wrench before lifting his hands. _Why? Is there something in my beard?_

 _Yeah._ Wrench bit back a smile. _A grey hair, old man._

It was worth it just to see the way his partner's eyes widened, how he leaned over the bar to try to catch his reflection in the half-empty beer bottle. Failing at that, he turned to Wrench for confirmation. _Really?_

_What do you think, stupid?_

The irritation was instant, apparent in his scowl and in the single-finger gesture he threw at Wrench. _You're an asshole._

It had become a game by then, the net of insults they cast on a daily basis. One that was far too entertaining to Wrench. His foot tapped excitedly against the base of his bar stool. _You're so fucking self-conscious. You should just shave it all off._

 _And you should get rid of that stupid jacket,_ Numbers shot back. _You look like a gay cowboy._

Well, half of that statement was true. Wrench had often wondered if Numbers noticed the subdued smiles, the stolen glances that lingered increasingly longer. If he heard his unsteady breathing, felt the tremors grip his frame whenever the two were forced to curl up in the backseat of their car because Fargo had been too cheap or too pissed at them to pay for lodgings. Wrench wasn't even sure when he had noticed the attraction himself. They spent so much time together both on and off the job, the realization had crept in gradually, almost as if he had looked up from his breakfast one morning and had just casually acknowledged that the man with the mussed hair and the jam in his beard was actually kind of sexy.

Wrench wasn't exactly suave, but the alcohol made him confident or stupid or a combination of both. He pulled his brand new fringed jacket from the hook beneath the bar top and slipped his arms inside, eyes fixed on Numbers as he flipped the collar. _I look_ _**good**_.

The corners of his mouth perked up. _You're drunk._

Wrench reached for the bottle beside him, took a long sip and slowly set it back down, his defiant gaze confirming No, I am not.

His reply only served to further his partner's annoyance. _And will you stop looking at me like that?_

 _Like what?_ He scoffed, reaching for his beer.

Numbers beat him to it, his movements calm and fluid as he pulled it just out of his grasp. He tilted his head, surveying Wrench curiously. _Like you want to fuck me._

Wrench had been prepared to play it off as a joke; it was no different than all the other times they'd screwed with each other's heads. But then Numbers crossed his arms, pulling the material of his shirt taut across his chest. Wrench saw the ink peeking out from below his collar, edged by dark curls. He couldn't help himself.

_Maybe. But I would at least kiss you first._

Numbers squinted, looking more confused than irritated. _"What?"_ he mouthed.

Even if he wanted to, Wrench was too far gone to backtrack. He repeated the sign for _kiss_ , puckering his lips for emphasis, but Numbers interrupted:

 _No, no, I got it. I_ — His hands fumbled, gave up halfway through his thought. Instead, he reached for his beer, downed what little was left and then took a gulp from Wrench's. Wrench watched carefully, his stomach trying to smooth out the knots as he cursed his brain for whatever fuck-up he may have caused this time. Numbers wasn't even looking at him; he simply stared into the wooden surface of the bar, his fingers tapping idly. When Wrench thought he couldn't bear the silence any longer, Numbers turned, leaning back in his seat.

_Sure. Go for it._

_What?_ It was Wrench's turn to be confused.

There was a hint of a smile on his face. _Do it. Kiss me._

Wrench glared and dug both fists into his pockets to keep himself from flying off the handle. He was sure Numbers was mocking him.

Numbers wasn't about to drop it, though. After a minute passed without a response, he prodded, _Come on, C-A-S-A-N-O-V-A, show me how romantic you can be._

_Fuck you!_

"Not on the first date!" He burst into laughter—that full, hearty laugh that Wrench had seen so often. His amusement only made Wrench angrier, envious of the sound that eluded him, that he'd desperately longed to hear.

But if he got close enough, he might be able to _feel_ it.

Wrench leaned forward, edging nearer to a quickly cooling Numbers. He caught the apprehension on his partner's face, but didn't care how irked or embarrassed he might become. He figured he could turn the blame back on him anyway. After all, it was Numbers who had spurred him on.

And for a second, he thought Numbers might just let him. He got so close, almost nose-to-nose, before he felt a hand on his chest, gentle pressure halting his advance. Wrench sucked in a breath, could have kicked himself for believing in Numbers' stupid prank. As he jerked backwards, he only hoped that Numbers hadn't felt his heart pounding like crazy. Shit, he really should have foreseen this.

But Numbers was full of surprises. He sighed, sliding off the bar stool. _Not here, idiot. Back home._ And then he tossed a few dollars on the bar and began pulling on his coat and scarf. When he saw Wrench still sitting there, gawking, he slapped his shoulder. _Hurry up or I'll find someone else to kiss._

Wrench had yet to master interpreting his partner's quirks, but Numbers hadn't been lying about his intentions that night.

They _did_ kiss. A lot.

His lips were soft beneath all that coarse hair. Wrench remembered how delighted he'd been when Numbers cupped his face in his hands, kissed him gently, deeply, hungrily, all those other ways Wrench had never truly experienced until then. He wasn't sure who had started or what kind of waltz had put them in such a configuration, but they ended up pressed to the living room wall, Numbers' back flush against it, and Wrench against him, Numbers pulling Wrench down deeper into his embrace, until his neck began to ache from the strain.

It was an ache Wrench could live with.

They kissed with open mouths, fingers tangled in hair, tongues tangled in throats, and when that wasn't enough, their hands wandered beneath the barrier of clothing, tugged shirts loose, ready to be stripped away. Numbers gripped him roughly, palms hot on his back, his chest. Wrench had been raking his nails through the soft hair on Numbers' stomach, but when he felt lips moving against his own, moaning words into his mouth, he dared to dip lower, drawing out a delicious shudder as his thumb grazed the bulge in his partner's pants.

They were shameless in their want. He felt it in the press of hips, saw it on Numbers' flushed face as he pulled back, his eyes heavy-lidded and glassy, grinning as he breathlessly repeated _"Fuck me."_

Wrench smirked, thought of a dozen smartass comments, but Numbers was already prying his jeans open, fingers slipping inside to grasp his cock. And fuck it if Wrench's hands didn't want to be anywhere else but at Numbers' shirt, thumbing the buttons loose, not able to undress him fast enough. Numbers laid his hand on the back of Wrench's head, guided his lips to the curve of his throat so that Wrench could feel every intoxicating vibration, every groan and gasp and filthy word spoken just for him.

He knew him so well, knew exactly what turned him on. They'd never even kissed before that night, but Numbers effortlessly had Wrench panting against his skin, caught between the tremor of his voice and the slick slide of his hand around his length. Already so close to the edge.

And Wrench really couldn't be responsible for popping the buttons off of Number's trousers.

They stumbled naked throughout the apartment—a couple of horny fools—tearing through drawers and cabinets and under furniture in their hunt for condoms and lube. After about ten minutes of searching, Numbers became impatient, trudging into the bedroom with his hands thrown up in defeat.

 _You fucking P-R-U-D-E_ , Wrench had joked. _You need to get laid more._ But Numbers retaliated by shoving him to the mattress, his sass long forgotten as strong hands covered his body, smoothing the tension from his muscles. Lips weren't far behind, nipping and sucking lower, almost in sync with each breath he took.

He shivered at how wonderful it all felt, all the things he'd been missing.

Numbers' beard was rough and slightly itchy between his thighs, but his mouth and tongue so warm and wet, his throat so incredibly deep, Wrench didn't stand a chance. Before he knew it, he was spilling past his partner's lips, and then Numbers was hovering over him, teasing him about how loud he'd been moaning.

_It's not fair the neighbors get to hear you, too._

_What do I sound like?_ he asked, heaving.

_Awful. Like a goat with a broom up its ass._

_Yeah, well your stupid beard gave my balls a rash._

(He'd called him a porcupine once, and Numbers had hit him so hard, his shoulder hurt for days. They had too much fun back then.)

Numbers was still laughing when Wrench pushed him onto his back and began tracing his tongue over each tattoo, inhaling the sultry mist of sweat and deodorant. The kisses he placed along his chest and stomach were slow and gentle, too much so for Numbers, because he slid his hands over Wrench's shoulders and tried to ease him lower, away from the silken fur down to where the hair became coarser. Numbers was wanton but Wrench was in control, out for revenge. He took his time exploring every inch of flesh, lazily suckling every sweet spot. When he finally wrapped his lips around his cock, Numbers was poised to explode, hips surging to meet each downward thrust of Wrench's mouth.

Wrench thought it was sexy and funny all at once.

 _There_ , he retorted, propped up on one elbow beside a very satisfied-looking Numbers, _I made you moan louder._

Numbers grinned, raising an eyebrow. _And I guess you heard that?_

_I felt it._

_All the way through my dick?_

Their eyes locked; Wrench placed a hand on Numbers' chest and slowly dragged it south, basking in the quickening pace of his heart, the choppy rise-and-fall of breath, the excited twitch of muscle. When his fingers brushed against his softening cock, Numbers inhaled sharply. Wrench licked his lips and gave a wink.

There was that laugh again, that smile he adored. Wrench wanted to keep going, buoyed by its energy, the knowledge that it was offered for him. But Numbers heaved himself up and reached for the switch on the wall above the bed; Wrench jumped into action, tapping his shoulder before he could shut off the light. He wouldn't have been able to ask his question in the dark.

_Can we continue tomorrow?_

Numbers shrugged coolly, but couldn't conceal his smile. _Sure. Try not to mess up my hair next time._

As Wrench moved to sweep a stray lock from Numbers' forehead, Numbers playfully slapped his hand aside, leaving himself wide open for Wrench to swoop in with a quick peck on the lips. Wrench felt the steam from his sigh, the gentle shove backwards.

 _Go to sleep, stupid. It's late._ And he flicked the switch before Wrench could try to prolong the conversation.

They settled down into bed, Numbers pulling the covers over both of them. Wrench saw the dim outline beside him, the man resting on his back just inches away. He wanted to wrap his arms around him and drift off to the drum of his heartbeat, wake up to the warmth of his skin, but he hadn't the courage to risk ruining a good thing.

( _You're too clingy_ , Numbers had told him the first time he'd tried to follow him into the shower. Numbers was often right.)

So he edged over the tiniest bit, until their shoulders were barely touching, and tried his best to fall asleep, his head swimming with memories of that night, visions of tomorrow.

But tomorrow came, ushering in disappointment.

Wrench had dreamed of being awoken with a flurry of kisses, or a sweet embrace, or even a warm mouth on his cock. Instead, he'd been nudged rather harshly by a disheveled, half-dressed Numbers, groggy as he signed, _Get up. Got another job._

Oh, Wrench was up then, not even bothering to hide his frustration as he bitched about how overworked they were, and how they deserved a break, and _Don't they have other assholes to push around instead of us?_ His hands had been moving so fast, he wasn't sure if any of it had gotten through. Not like it mattered anyway; in all honesty, he'd just needed to vent. And he sure as hell wasn't going to admit that his outburst had been more about having to postpone their fuckfest than general concern for their wellbeing.

 _Look—it's two, three days, tops_ . Numbers tried to calm him, though he appeared just as irritated. _No negotiation, no intimidation, just get in there and kill the fucker. Then we're back home._ He hesitated, then surprised him with a tiny kiss on the cheek. _And we can pick up where we left off._

(He was a damn good motivator.)

The hit had taken a week.

Wrench cursed the slippery bastard the entire drive back, before the blood in their trunk had even begun to dry. He was dying to fuck, hadn't felt so sexually frustrated since puberty.

(Only Numbers could do that to him.)

When Numbers insisted they pull off for gas, Wrench nearly slapped him. He hadn't even considered how much worse things might have gotten if they ran out of fuel halfway to their destination. How he might have just tried to jump him right there on the side of the road.

(Numbers had rules, and he'd found that out the hard way.)

Wrench pumped the gas while Numbers hung back inside the shop, saying he had to pick up a few things. Those "few things" took far too long in Wrench's opinion, and by the time Numbers slipped into the seat beside him, Wrench had already started the car, his thumbs sore from tapping against the steering wheel. As Wrench turned, an argument brewing on his hands, Numbers thrust a lumpy plastic bag into his lap, grinning like an idiot. He could only imagine the kind of face he'd made when he opened it.

Numbers must have bought every bottle of lube in the damn store, along with an extra-large box of condoms. _Are we having an O-R-G-Y?_ Wrench asked, dumbfounded.

Numbers only laughed, pointing for him to drive. It was all the instruction Wrench needed.

(Only Numbers.)

Wrench would regret being so eager.

Numbers felt so hot inside, so warm in his arms, his legs gripping his waist as he bucked against him. They were so close, Wrench captured each vibration, every last shudder and throb, the tightness pulsing around his body.

He came embarrassingly quickly, mouth fixed to the side of Numbers' neck, his partner's hips slowing once he'd realized. Though gasping and shaking, Wrench held him there in his lap, brought him off with a deft hand before lifting his slick fist to his chest in apology. He made short work of licking himself clean, thirsty for Numbers' taste—sweet and dense and addictive.

 _It's your fault,_ he added. _For being so good at it._

Numbers tried to force a solemn expression, but was too elated from his orgasm to feign disappointment. _You better make it up to me,_ he smiled.

Wrench did, several times over. With fingers and tongue, hands and mouth, affirming his skills each time Numbers climaxed. They'd made it through a fair chunk of their supplies before his partner signaled his exhaustion.

"Enough, OK? You're gonna break me." By then, Numbers had been too spent to even attempt to sign. It seemed to take all of his effort just to wipe the moisture from his forehead.

Wrench was on his knees, still buried inside him, watching as Numbers half-laughed-half-sighed his contentment. The view below was picturesque: Numbers sprawled out on his back, hair clinging to his chest and stomach, plastered with sweat and spunk. When he let his hands slip from Numbers' thighs, Wrench saw that his own fingers had become sticky and shriveled.

Everything was soaking wet, their mess simply stunning.

Numbers' eyes were closed, and when he spoke, his voice thrummed around him, through him. "They should have called you 'Screwdriver' instead."

(Of course, Numbers was always ruining the moment by saying something stupid.)

Wrench strummed his fingers against Numbers' damp chest until he opened his eyes. His hesitation had drained completely. They'd already fucked; there was really no point in being demure. _It's J-O-S-H-U-A._ He spelled it twice so there was no mistaking. _You know that. So call me that when we're alone like this._

Immediately, he noticed the change in Numbers' face, felt the disappointing sting of doubt. "Come on, you're making this complicated."

 _Complicated?_ Wrench's lips parted in disbelief, hands overly animated. _You rammed your tongue down my throat and begged me to fuck you. You made it complicated, A-R-I._

If Numbers didn't comprehend most of what Wrench had said, he certainly caught the last word. " _Fuck._ " He threw his hands over his face so that Wrench couldn't see whatever gripes came next. Wrench was stronger than him, though, and it took very little to wrest them away, revealing fragments of regret, vows of "I never should have..."

(NeverNever Never. they'd said that when they wanted to inflict the most damage. few words were more agonizing.)

It was all Wrench needed to see. He slid out of him, refusing to look back as he headed to the bathroom to trash the condom and clean himself off. When he returned several minutes later, Numbers was sitting up, wiping at his torso with a dirty undershirt. He looked somewhat more composed than when Wrench had left. _You didn't let me finish my thought._

Wrench was more than satisfied to let Numbers simmer in whatever guilt he was feeling. He stretched out on the bed beside him and stared straight up at the ceiling, ignoring the flashes of movement in his peripheral vision. After an array of pokes still hadn't captured his attention, Numbers threw a leg across his waist and straddled him, the hands gripping either side of his head forcing his acknowledgement.

(He'd always said his ridiculous sideburns were good for something. right before he yanked on them.)

"I was trying to say, 'I never should have told you my name.'" His lips moved a little slower, though Wrench had been fine-tuning his skills. "I always hated it."

Wrench encircled Numbers' wrists and pulled gently, coaxing him down into a kiss that was deep and merciful. He spun them both onto their sides, their bodies pressed tightly together. After they broke apart, Wrench smiled. _I like it. It's a nice name._

Numbers plucked absent-mindedly at the sparse hairs on Wrench's chest. "Yeah, well you've never heard it being screamed by an angry Jewish woman."

He couldn't help laughing at that, imagining what Numbers' mother was like, what he was like as a teenager—if he was just as handsome and immature. He wanted all of him, every last piece. As close as possible.

_Hey, stupid. Turn over._

"Seriously? We've been fucking all day. I'm starving—"

A finger on his lips was all it took to silence him. _Just shut up and let me hold you._

By the way Numbers furrowed his brow, Wrench fully expected him to go off again about how he was making things complicated. But his odd stare gradually dissipated into a reluctant pout. "Five minutes, OK? Then let's get some dinner."

(he spoiled him rotten. Wrench didn't deserve it.)

_Better make it takeout._

Numbers turned and flipped him off over his shoulder—clearly his favorite ASL sign—though Wrench felt the laughter quaking through his body as he pulled him into his arms.

Those were the longest five minutes in all of his existence. And Wrench cherished every second.

 

 

Their first argument after becoming more than partners—Wrench wouldn't even attempt to retrace that one. They all just seemed to blur together, all equally absurd and avoidable. He vaguely recalled nearly knocking Numbers' teeth out once over something so ludicrous it had instantly been forgotten.

(an insult? worse than "retard"? he'd broken a kid's nose for that in high school.)

(or had he flirted with someone? they were jealous to the point of ignorance.)

It very well may have been their first job after they'd fucked, when Wrench had tried to crawl into the same motel bed with Numbers, only to be shoved away and given a lecture on professionalism.

( _I can't concentrate with you trying to plow me all the time_.)

(but rules were meant to be broken. and Numbers' focus never seemed to suffer for it.)

Both their personal and professional lives had been one oscillating current of arguments. Teasing matches and accusations had measured up with the compliments and affection: _You're going to fuck this job up like you did our first few; I've been craving your cock since Bismarck; You asshole, you can't just ignore me; Just shut up and come to bed—I sleep better when you're beside me._ Back and forth.

(the words stung more after they became lovers. unable to be washed away with apologetic kisses and sex.)

(but they had tried.)

One in particular stuck out, if only for its sheer pointlessness.

Or maybe it was because of the things Wrench _hadn't_ said.

The job they'd been on was infuriatingly boring; the man they were after accused of stealing from an associate's warehouse. Their directive was simple, but by the time they'd arrived, someone had tipped the scumbag off, and they'd found him holed up in yet another shitty motel. Forty-eight hours of constant surveillance, and the guy still hadn't emerged. It was a miracle they hadn't been at each other's throats after five, trapped in a room on the opposite side of the lot, seething and trying to come up with a plan that didn't involve more waiting. They'd been instructed not to make things messy.

(it was their habit, regardless. numbers didn't mind putting a bullet through someone's brain, as long as said brain didn't end up on his italian-portuguese-whateverthefuck suit.)

It was late into the evening, and Numbers had gone out for snacks and drinks, something to hold them over until they could get a proper meal. Wrench had grown tired of keeping vigil, and was lounging on the bed nearest the window, watching cartoons with the captions on.

(a boy with a football-shaped head. a girl with a unibrow—always frowning, like numbers.)

(he smiled each time he remembered.)

Numbers came back with a brown paper shopping bag tucked beneath his arm. Wrench could spot his irritation as soon as he walked through the door, practically radiating off of him in waves.

_What are you doing? You're supposed to be watching the guy._

_I am._ He tipped his head towards the window a few feet away, eyes straining past Numbers to keep up with the television. _What the hell does it look like?_

Numbers dropped his cargo onto the opposite bed before snatching the remote, ignoring Wrench's angry snort as he shut off the TV and chucked the controller far out of reach. _You're not. You're screwing around._ He was too irate to care about his coat or his precious suit, stripping off his outer layers and tossing them by the foot of the bed. Wrench watched with a heated glance as he pulled something from the brown bag and flung it at him, hitting him square in the chest. _Eat some junk food, so I don't have to see you complain about being hungry later._

Wrench sat up, turning the bag of chips over in his hands. Numbers had moved to the chair between Wrench's bed and the window, and was busy peering through a slit in the hideous plaid curtains. Whether Numbers had been ignoring him or was just too fixated on the job, it took several vigorous shakes of the bag before he finally jerked his head towards Wrench. _What?_

_Why did you buy this kind? You know I hate this flavor._

Numbers rubbed at his tired eyes before letting his hand slide lower on his face, masking the expletives he was no doubt dribbling. _No, I didn't. How would I know that?_

 _I told you before. I tell you every time you eat those disgusting onion rings and then want to suck face. You would know if you listened to me._ Wrench scowled, then added, _But you don't._

"You have got to be—" He slammed his fist on the windowsill, and Wrench saw the ceiling light flicker, Numbers' remaining words lost between clenched teeth. _It's late. Nothing was open. Eat your fucking chips and go to bed._ His hands were restless, like they would be punching something if they weren't preoccupied with speaking.

(he'd later adopt the habit of giving up when things got too heated, claiming his hands were too tired to argue.)

(and then he would just turn his back completely.)

Wrench could never remember why he'd pushed the issue—if he had wanted to prove a point, or selfishly have the last word, or if he'd truly been upset that Numbers didn't know he detested sour cream and onion potato chips—but he never forgot the look on Numbers' face when he replied, _You don't respect me._

(like he'd rubbed salt into a wound.)

The chair nearly toppled over as he sprang to his feet, Wrench quick to follow, expecting the first punch at any moment.

(he was smaller, but he hit with passion. the black eye he'd given him after their first job proved they were equals.)

But the physical blows never came. Numbers bit his lip to keep from shouting, his hands moving with finality. _If I wanted a whiny little bitch up my ass all the time, I'd have gotten myself a_ _**wife** _ _instead of a_ _**partner**_ _._

Wrench's nails were oddly sharp against his palms, fists clenching and unclenching as he fought for a middle ground between needing to defend his pride and not wanting to cause harm to someone he cared for. Three, four, however many years ago, Wrench would have clocked this asshole without a second thought. But, as Numbers had warned, things had become complicated.

In the end, he decided his best option was to walk away.

 _I'm leaving_. Slowly, he pulled on his boots and forced his feet to move calmly, not bothering to stop for his jacket. With one hand on the knob, he allowed himself a quick glance over his shoulder. Numbers was back in his chair, staring out the window like they hadn't been about to kill each other mere minutes ago.

Fuck it.

Wrench spun and stormed over to his bed, dropping onto the edge so hard Numbers jumped, shifting his eyes away from the glass. He'd had his hands on his knees, and Wrench could see the knuckles tense beneath his stare. _I thought you were leaving._ His movements were painfully deliberate.

 _I'm not leaving._ _**You** _ _leave._

As if on cue, Numbers' brows creased, and he breathed one of his short, annoyed laughs. After so many years together, Wrench could practically set his watch by Numbers' moods. _Why should I leave?_

 _Because you started it._ Wrench sat up straight, crossing his arms confidently.

Numbers wasn't having any of it. He shook his head, signaled that he was finished before turning back around. But the constant jostling of Wrench's knee against his reeled him back in. _WHAT?_ His exhaustion was showing, the bags beneath his eyes dark and heavy. Wrench almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

_Are you going or not? I'm hungry._

If looks could kill, Wrench would have been pulverized, tossed into a meat grinder and served with a side of fries.

(he used to laugh to himself, thinking he must be kosher. numbers was always so keen to devour him.)

Numbers said nothing, only stared, lips pressed into a pale line, anger puffing out his cheeks. Then, very slowly, as if Wrench had been poised to flee like a stray cat, Numbers reached beside him on the bed and picked up the bag of chips. Without breaking his gaze, he opened the bag and popped a potato chip into his mouth. He hadn't finished the first yet before cramming in another. And another. Each time his hand disappeared, it came up with increasingly more. Wrench felt his eye begin to twitch.

_Hey! Stop it—_

He ignored him and kept eating, his beard collecting crumbs.

_Don't finish them all—_

Once he realized how useless his words were, Wrench leaned over and tore the bag from his fingers, peering inside to make sure there was enough left for him. He sure as hell wasn't about to eat whatever Number had bought for himself.

(fucking Scrunyuns, as usual.)

When he looked up, Numbers was smiling and dusting the greasy chips from his beard. _You act like such a child sometimes. You don't deserve an apology—_

Wrench bristled.

— _but I don't want us to spend the rest of this job mad at each other. It's painful enough as it is._ He placed a hand on Wrench's knee and gave a light squeeze. _I'm sorry, OK?_

(numbers was always the one apologizing. wrench was so selfish, so spoiled.)

(they killed without qualms, but hurting each other...well, that was complicated.)

Wrench hadn't wanted to cave so easily, but he found himself instinctively reaching for his hand, squeezing back as a sign of absolution. Still, he schemed to have the last laugh, waiting for Numbers to settle back with his false sense of security before he flashed him a grin and slid a lone chip past his lips, forcing the salty, seasoned lump down his throat.

_On second thought, these aren't so bad after all._

Numbers was completely flabbergasted. He grit his teeth, movements erratic as he stumbled over the words, over his partner's ridiculous temperament. But after a moment, Wrench saw the corners of his mouth curling, unable to hold back his amusement, the laughter bubbling over. _I think we should get a divorce._

(he loved it when their arguments ended like that.)

As a final _Fuck_ _you_ , Numbers leaned in to give Wrench a kiss, and when Wrench shifted to avoid him, he made sure to blow some of his onion breath into his face. Wrench jabbed him in the ribs.

_You asshole! I don't know why I—_

His smile was lukewarm, his thoughts racing. When he brought his hand back to his chest, it hung there, timid and cautious. He let it fall beside him in silence, promising himself that the next time he bared his fists to his partner, they would hold an entirely different meaning.

That sooner or later, he would find the words.

 

 

On that day, he thought he'd lost him.

Numbers had refused the doctor. He'd been insanely lucky the bullet had just barely grazed his left temple, but that good fortune seemed to matter little to him. All he'd been worried about at the time was whether or not his perfect hair had been singed.

(neurotic, yet ridiculously stubborn.)

It wasn't the first time Wrench had stepped up to play medic, but Numbers' pained grimaces told him he wasn't doing a very good job. In his defense, he'd been too upset to be gentle, too concerned with other thoughts to care if he was a little heavy-handed with the alcohol or swabbed a little too forcibly with the cotton.

An inch. Less than that, maybe. And he would have been carrying back a corpse.

Numbers winced when Wrench's fingertips dug deeper than intended. "Ow. _Ow. Fuck._ " _You have no B-S—B-E-D—_ He quit halfway through spelling and just spoke the word: "Bedside manner."

How fitting.Wrench didn't know what kind of manner he was supposed to have with the two of them crammed in the motel bathroom, Numbers sitting on the toilet in just his underwear while he perched precariously on the edge of the tub, dabbing at dried blood and the fresh blood that seeped out from beneath it. Numbers had fretted over too much of it getting on his clothes, but Wrench couldn't care less, his white undershirt already mottled with crimson fingerprints.

(so much blood in his life. none of it should have been his partner's.)

(it was, it was. too often.)

He tossed the used cotton ball towards the trash but missed horribly. Plucking some gauze from their battered first-aid kit, he reached over to dress Numbers' wound. Numbers smacked his wrist aside.

_Can you please be more careful?_

Wrench felt his nerves snap like a rubber band. His best attempt at delicacy drew another stream of curses from Numbers' lips, sent him scrambling to push Wrench away. Wrench almost couldn't convey his warning, his fingers had been so shaken with anger. _**You** _ _be careful._

Numbers frowned, dropping his hand; the gauze stuck to the side of his head. _Just give me the tape._

Far be it for Wrench to follow a simple instruction when he was pissed off. He tore a strip with his teeth, readily fending off Numbers' slaps as he pressed forward, stretched it over the piece of gauze. Still too rough.

_Fuck! What is your problem?_

Wrench threw the roll of tape at him, watched it bounce off his stomach and fly in god knows what direction. He was done playing doctor. _You were reckless._

Numbers' gaze narrowed. He ran his tongue across his teeth before nodding. _Right. I'm reckless. I couldn't possibly have predicted there would be a fourth man hiding up on the balcony. So that makes me fucking reckless?_

It didn't; Wrench hadn't noticed the shooter himself until he glimpsed the image of Numbers reeling, clutching his head and stumbling backwards in shock. Ten seconds later, and Wrench had emptied the entire clip of his rifle in the bastard's direction. It hadn't mattered that the guy had gone down after the first few.

Numbers had been his only priority.

And yet he was sitting there indignantly while Wrench anxiously looked him over. _This is the second time in a month._ His fingers brushed the bandage on Numbers' right bicep.

Numbers shied away from the touch, placing his hand over the coarse cloth to guard the newly-stitched gash beneath it. Wrench continued to glower at him, until he offered up a weak _It happens._

Things like that _did_ happen on occasion. Aside from the standard kicks and punches, Wrench had been stabbed in the back twice, shot once in the calf, and had had a very disgruntled old lady throw a pot of boiling water at his chest. None of those had hurt as much as the time he'd caught the sharp edge of a blade with his palm. It may have saved his face, but communication had been hell for weeks.

( _Cheer up, you're still gorgeous,_ numbers had tried. he'd only been able to rebuff him with a single finger.)

(but his smile eased the pain. always.)

Numbers had amassed an equal assortment of injuries, perhaps more if Wrench counted the paler scars on his body, mementos of the years before they'd met.

(they had tales, like his tattoos. some he chose to share.)

(their sorrows brought them closer.)

But this—this was different. And the way Numbers shrugged it all off, the way he just stood and tried to leave like their conversation was meaningless only stoked the flames of his anger. Wrench bounded to his feet, halting Numbers' escape. _You could have been killed!_

 _And so could you! It's an occupational hazard,_ he fired back, not missing a beat.

Wrench recalled a time when he had felt the same indifference, back when he had been too selfish to appreciate Numbers' generosity, how much he'd risked for him. Those first two, three jobs had been grueling.

(…not going to die because of your carelessness!)

(You think I want to…some fucking deaf guy? I…have let them kill you…what I get…being the nice guy.)

(We're both expendable…heads are on the line…try to keep ourselves alive.)

(…live for me.)

He felt the tears glazing his eyes, saw the long-forgotten words, the genuine panic and fear in Numbers' face. He imagined what he would do without him there. How empty his world would be. His hands shook; his exhalations came in short gasps through quivering lips. _That doesn't mean you should hasten it._

Numbers sighed. _We're not arguing about this now. I have a headache._ He turned to leave again, but Wrench grabbed his arm, and then— _then—_ his hands went flying. _What the fuck am I supposed to say? That I'm sorry? That it won't happen again? Because I'm not going to lie to you, Joshua._

(whenever numbers used his real name, he knew it was serious.)

_I'm not in the mood to discuss this, OK?_

They often skirted such terse topics as death. Neither enjoyed acknowledging their own worries—their own mortality.

(they hid their fears in sex.)

(terror tasted of the sheets between his teeth. numbers on his knees behind him, making each thrust count.)

(each time could be their last.)

But Wrench needed something—anything—to drive the thought of a lonely life from his mind. To keep him from falling to pieces. _Ari, please…_ He tried to embrace him and was vehemently pushed away, nearly tripping backwards into the tub.

_I told you to leave. When we first met. I tried to warn you, but you chose to stay. Well, this is the life I chose. We're stuck in this, however long or short it might be._

His hands felt unbearably heavy. He had never wanted to speak to someone so badly in his life, but all the words were caught in his throat—jumbled, useless. Whatever sound escaped him only seemed to make Numbers more annoyed.

_You're whining like a fucking dog. Stop it._

Wrench stood helplessly, gnawing on his bottom lip, knowing the tears would fall at any moment, and wondering what Numbers would have to say about them.

He only laughed, face creasing in further irritation. _What, you want a way out now? For us to be a normal couple or some bullshit?_

Wrench felt the heat, the rage flooding his body. He'd never been so bothered by Numbers' fucking attitude.

(he said he'd always had trouble showing affection, had tried making an exception for wrench.)

(it was a poor excuse. a trait wrench could never fully erase.)

(he hadn't cared much, as long as they ended up in each other's arms at the end of the night.)

He wanted to scream. To strangle him. Call him an arrogant prick. But his hands failed him, could barely stumble around _Please_ and _Listen_ and _Don't_.

The light danced across Numbers' features, glittering in unwanted teardrops. Wrench had to blink several times to see the point he was trying to make as he rambled on: _You know we can't just quit. That's not how things work._

 _I never said I wanted that._ Wrench wiped at his eyes, his nose. Everything was leaking, every doubt and long-buried emotion. He couldn't stop the wall from crumbling.

 _Then what?_ Numbers huffed, lowering his head in his hands, like he'd had enough of him. Of everything. When he lifted it, Wrench saw that his eyes were red. _What do you want from me? From us?_

 _I want—_ Wrench faltered, the words appearing and disappearing before he could grasp them. _I just want to be with you._

He rolled his eyes, hands falling to his hips. And in his callousness, Wrench found the anger, the courage to say what he'd been keeping to himself.

 _I love you._ He struck his chest with his fists a little harder than he'd meant to, but he'd wanted the emphasis. His message was too important for Numbers to devalue.

The look on Numbers' face, the way the lines around his mouth softened, told Wrench that he understood.

(he'd never taught him that one. he'd gotten him to admit to looking it up on his own.)

( _I was curious…I thought I might have a use for it, someday._ )

But Numbers' silence nearly broke him. Wrench clenched his jaw, pushed through the sadness. _I love you, god damn it. And I want to be with you._ _Today. Tomorrow. Forever. For however long that is. That's all I ever wanted._ He resisted the urge to shake him, let his arms drop to his sides, lonely and reticent.

It seemed like they would spend the rest of their lives standing there, their labored breaths filling the room, burying them in quiet desperation. Eventually, Numbers brought his hands up to speak, but only ended up staring at them, watching the fingers curl, unsure of whether or not to return the sentiment. He looked to Wrench for an answer, but all of Wrench's poetry had fled him; the best he could offer was an exhausted gaze.

And then Wrench saw it: A single tear trailing down his cheek, preceding the words he'd only dreamed of glimpsing.

_I love you._

Wrench tried to smile, but the tears swept it away.

Numbers was fighting just as hard, wrecked by the rawness of the emotions Wrench had thrown at him. _You know I love you._ He wiped the deluge from his face before continuing. _But don't think things will change because of this. Our future together—_

Wrench didn't give him a chance to finish. He clasped Numbers' hands in his own—warm, soft, pulsing with life—and pulled them to him, pressing them against his heart. And though Wrench hadn't asked for anything, had only wanted a way to show his affection, Numbers took his left hand, threading their fingers together as he drew it closer. He placed Wrench's palm to his bare chest, and Wrench felt the throb inside him—inside them both—the pain and hope that was theirs alone.

He had never been so unbearably sad and happy all at once.

His hand snaked along Numbers' chest, over his neck, his throat. Fingertips brushed the edge of his beard before slipping into the hair behind his ear. Wrench laid his other hand against Numbers' cheek, thumb caressing his bottom lip. They hadn't needed words in that moment; their eyes spoke volumes.

(he sometimes said how much he hated them.)

( _too pale. they burn right through me._ )

(but he'd always held their gaze until the last second, the instant before their lips crashed.)

Numbers' hands were twisted in Wrench's shirt, tugging gently as he mouthed, "I love you, Joshua." Wrench bent forward, brought their lips together in the lightest kiss—barely-there, yet so focused it sent a shiver through his entire body. Numbers wrapped his arms around his waist, rocking against him, hot, rhythmic.

Two halves, together.

Despite the headache Numbers had claimed to have, neither was willing to part. They ended up in bed, as always, Wrench sliding in and out, so, so slow, deeper and closer than ever.

A lingering intensity.

Numbers burned beneath him, stealing each breath, though Wrench had offered them freely. Their hands glided through sweat, across skin and muscles, bruising in their tenderness. Their lips mouthed private vows, messages that echoed deep in their chests.

And even with the lights off and the room drenched in total darkness, Wrench thought—he _swore_ —he saw Numbers breathe his name each time he pulled back.

 

"Joshua…"

 

Calm, complete.

 

"I love you."

 

 

 

 _Lorne Malvo_.

 

That name was on Numbers' fingertips, in the terror tingeing Lester Nygaard's eyes, on the lips of the policewoman.

 

"Dead."

 

It was his smug face Wrench thought of during all those sleepless nights.

 

"I slit his throat."

 

The mess of blankets could never seem to hold any warmth. Huddled alone, his anger smoldering.

 

"It hurts."

 

A week spent outside Duluth. Too calm, as if he hadn't just escaped from the hospital, left the cuffs hanging on the bedrail.

 

A week in denial.

 

Tomorrow would be just another day.

 

 _He's going to give me hell for leaving him in that blizzard. Bet he won't shut up about his frozen beard for weeks._ _Probably make fun of me for losing my jacket, something like 'About time you grew out of your cowboy fetish.' Asshole. They took it for evidence. And you're going to buy me a new one._

 

Sometimes he caught himself signing to the empty passenger seat. Hands dried his eyes, fell back to his lap.

 

Lies as sad as the truth.

 

He couldn't stay; he knew they would come. Police. Nightmares. His demons.

 

_Let's just do this and go home._

 

The car was stolen. The backseat uncomfortable, without Numbers beside him.

 

_You're holding too tightly._

 

_If I don't, you'll fall. If you want a bed, ask for more money._

 

_They already hate us._

 

_That's why we have each other._

 

He needed a bed. Needed food, warmer clothing, blankets thicker than hospital-issue, fucking painkillers. Needed to heal. Needed to keep moving.

 

He couldn't afford to wait for the dead to return.

 

Dead stars shone in the darkness. He looked so good in the cold, where Wrench could see puffs of his voice.

 

"Don't make me regret…sticking my neck out..."

 

He'd never asked for that smile, never cared to beg for salvation.

 

"…want to call you 'Wrench'…don't argue. They own you. We…one chance…make it work."

 

He'd hated being touched, but liked the gentle hand on his shoulder, the way his lips moved when he called him _Partner_.

 

"We're partners…Let's go…home."

 

Numbers was his home. What home could he return to?

 

Unemployed, unwanted.

 

 _Work. Wrench. Numbers. Partner._ "Teach me more, OK?" _M-O-R-E._

 

Home was only a memory.

 

A requiem.

 

_I'm Jewish. The other assholes, they said, Oh, you must be real good at crunching numbers, huh? I was a dropout. A punk. What the fuck do they know?_

 

His hands moved slower when he was angry. Not quite elegant yet, but they'd been practicing.

 

_It's A-R-I. And if I ever see you call me that, I'll break your fucking wrists._

 

Sometimes he was like ice.

 

He knew the cold; it was his only familiar. He headed North.

 

_You look beautiful, Ari. With the snow in your hair._

 

Such stupid words, for his eyes only. Wrench was hopeless.

 

Hopelessly running.

 

A small cabin in the woods, close to the border. An old safehouse leftover from an old job. They'd hidden some money there, the odd weapon or two.

 

Sometimes things looked grim.

 

_I'm not going to stick around when the shit comes crashing down. Nobody is going to miss us when we die, so we may as well live for ourselves._

 

All they really needed.

 

They'd fucked like the world was going to end, made plans for a future they didn't believe would come.

 

Numbers on his back, begging him for more— _harder, deeper._ Said he wanted to feel his cock inside him long after they were both gone.

 

If sleep was impossible, it was because the bed was just too lumpy, too worn out.

 

It wasn't that whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Numbers.

 

Those expensive, impractical suits that he wore so well. The collar of his shirt perpetually unbuttoned, such a distraction. He knew it was one of Wrench's favorite places to kiss.

 

_It's freezing. Wear a warmer scarf. Am I supposed to take care of you all the time?_

 

Too much time in front of the mirror, obsessing over his hair. Thick. Dark. Soft beneath his fingers.

 

_I'm going to shave you bald in your sleep._

 

That seductive, sideways glance, drawing him into bed. A weight against his back, thickness stretching him open. Breath on his ear, hot.

 

His last breath, lost to the storm. Dying alone.

 

_Did he blame me?_

 

Wounds healed in time, but the ache in his heart was stubbornly persistent.

 

_Was it my fault?_

 

They could have killed Nygaard three times before dinner, been back in Fargo by dawn.

 

But he insisted.

 

_Grab. Drill. Dunk._

 

It was Numbers' plan. The simplest, cleanest. It had worked for years, like a well-kept watch.

 

He was the smarter of the two. What was Wrench good for?

 

He should have just kept his hands busy. Numbers would still be alive, and they never would have learned that name.

 

 _Lorne Malvo_.

 

The guilt was frigid, icy like the lake. He felt himself slipping under.

 

Crumpled wads of paper littered the floor, suicide notes written for him alone. A reminder of his cowardice.

 

He wanted to die. To kill.

 

Him.

 

_Lorne Malvo._

 

It was less painful than drowning in his remorse; the corpse he pictured face-down in the snow less heartrending than that of his partner's.

 

An obsession.

 

Numbers' scent was on everything. He wanted to burn it all.

 

Not far from Bemidji. That idiot should have taken off. He had no idea what was coming for him.

 

A reckoning.

 

_You took him from me._

 

The coat he pulled on was hideous, grey and too puffy. The gun at his hip oddly bulky.

 

Numbers would have told him to leave, to take the scrapes and bruises of the last battle and focus on living to see another day.

 

"I don't care…you don't value your own life, but…at least try to live for me."

 

But Numbers was dead. He was everything. And he was dead.

 

Where had that gotten him?

 

They were just bodies, after all. Frail, for all their strength.

 

They had seemed to forget.

 

 

 

A body lying in the snow.

 

His partner's. His. Theirs.

 

_Ours._

 

One. Two. One.

 

For what?

 

What had been the point of it all?

 

Living and dying. Loving and killing. Breathing for oneself or for another.

 

He was no longer whole. Had become as fractured as the night sky, pinheads of light dropped into a sea of filth. Fading, blurry as the stars above.

 

His history winks back, fragments of memories and sensations that he can't quite fit together. A cloud surrounding him: Particles of life, articles of breath. Blood cleansed from his body, his soul, gifted to the lonely earth.

 

The choking cries of man clinging to what once was.

 

Fading. 

 

A warm breeze drifting through an open window, stirring the pipes of a windchime that he could never hope to hear.

 

Green and blue glass, like his eyes. A burning reflection.

 

_Quit breathing on me. It's too hot already._

 

Light gleaming on metal, soft rays, soft bedsheets.

 

Somewhere they hoped to retire, somewhere south, far from the cold.

 

No such thing as a vacation. Just another stupid dream.

 

_I'll make it hotter. Or would you rather I suffocate?_

 

They'd been suffocating for some time.

 

Fingers that draw the air from his lungs with each sweep of skin. Two lovers gasping. Drowning, unable to break the surface of their obsession.

 

_I always wanted to ride you like a real cowboy._

 

Sex in a chair. Hips bucking, swaying beneath an oversized coat. A fistful of tassels.

 

_It's too big for you._

 

_Yeah, but it feels so good inside me._

 

Always so obscene. Like a bunch of fucking teenagers.

 

Scalding heat, everywhere he touches. Fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, grazing the hollow of his throat. Telling him how beautiful it all sounds, shaping every last detail, so he never has to feel jealous.

 

_You're so beautiful._

 

He'd hated how much he loved it.

 

_And you're a sappy fuck._

 

But he loved him.

 

He loved.

 

The press of foreheads, cold noses, warmer lips and bodies. Fingers woven through a thicket of chest hair. A rumble of a voice when he'd held him close. A heartbeat.

 

Limbs twisted together beneath the covers, inseparable. The heave of a tired sigh.

 

_You take up too much space._

 

The smell of breakfast on lazy mornings. Coffee bitter on their tongues.

 

Bitter words. Bruised fists and faces. Arguments that spilled over into violence. Violence an indelible part of their lives.

 

Make-up sex that was just as rough. Delicate flesh stinging with bites, days old aches throbbing beneath scarves and turtlenecks, hidden to all but themselves.

 

A mouth that would tear him to shreds, glue him back together with soft kisses. His taste always too serene, too forgiving.

 

When he prayed for forgiveness, it was never to any god.

 

Every eye roll and insult, the same old complaints. All of it overwhelmed by the sharp smile, a beacon in their monotony. Too much time vested to throw it all away.

 

For better or worse.

 

For what end?

 

What awaited them but pain?

 

He'd often felt like they were hanging by a thread, the rope binding them worn and frayed.

 

He was his kite; he'd told him so.

 

They had no choice but to hold on.

 

Strong hands cradling his own. Gentle hands dressing wounds, tracing scars and soothing aches. Comforting hands speaking to his heart.

 

_I never thought they'd bring us together._

 

Lips moving against his, against the world. An unending struggle.

 

_I never thought we'd get this far._

 

Eyes smiling brighter than the stars, driving his fears back into the darkness.

 

_I love you, you asshole._

 

There is no gesture he can repeat. Wrench is frozen as the crimson snow, unable to even twitch his fingers. His lips form the words silently, the last shard he has to offer.

 

_I'm sorry._

 

For what?

 

_For everything._

 

No one to see it, no one watching but the sky overhead. Even the star has grown dim, weary from the journey, the effort to see him through to the end. 

 

Its dying pulse sweeps over him like a wave, warm and welcoming, beating in tune with his heart, a melodic sound that reverberates deep within. 

 

And in the echo is a voice, crisp and clear as the winter air, familiar as the falling snow. One he swears he recognizes, though his ears could never hear it.

 

"Get up, Joshua."

 

Heavy. Throbbing.

 

A quiet smile.

 

"We've got another job to do."

 

[[end.]]

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Seventeen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3444824) by [LadyDorian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian)
  * [Stupid Questions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3387692) by [LadyDorian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian)
  * [Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10898631) by [LadyDorian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian)




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